Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) 📖

That night, after I’d filled Mart, Stephen, and Walter in on my lunch with Daniel in the excruciating detail that they demanded, the four of us clambered down to the floor around our coffee table and started reading the articles Daniel and I had copied. We’d each read an article and highlight anything that felt “murder-worthy” with our assigned color – I had insisted I have blue because it was my favorite – and then pass it on.

The task was made incessantly more difficult by Aslan’s persistent laying on each stack of paper in succession. Someone new to cats might have tried to relocate her, but I was a seasoned cat owner and knew that such tactics only deepened feline resolve. So we simply slid the paper out from under her when we needed it and allowed her to place her girth on the next stack.

After an hour or so, we’d ended up with four articles that felt vicious enough to warrant murder. One was the review that Max Davies was obviously so bitter about, one was the Tubman article. The third was a note about a local tractor show that Stevensmith had called “degenerate” while also describing the people who brought their tractors as “hillbillies who wouldn’t know their arses from their exhaust.” And the final article insulted a high school English teacher who had spent thousands of her own dollars buying books for a Little Free Library on campus so that the students could have easy access to reading material. The Library had been vandalized, and the act had broken the teacher down to tears, which prompted Stevensmith to say she was a weak-hearted woman who should know better than to do more than was required in her government job.

“This woman was a piece of work,” Stephen said when he’d read the last article. “I kind of want to kill her myself.”

“Daniel and I said the same thing. She was a really horrible person.” I couldn’t believe someone would put such awful things in print.

The doorbell rang, and I jumped up with my wallet to pay for our pizza. We’d been so engrossed in our research that we’d all forgotten to eat.

When I opened the door, I was surprised to see Cate and Lucas at the door, pizza box in hand. “You were not the pizza delivery people I was expecting.”

“No?” Cate grinned. “We were coming by to see your friends – did they mention that we met when we stopped by the shop earlier today while you were on your date,” she winked, and I shook my head, “and caught the delivery gal at the end of the walk. Our treat.” She handed me the piping hot box.

“Well, thanks. Come in and join us. Plenty for everyone.” I gestured toward the door and followed them up the walk.

Just as we were about to head in, Cate turned and whispered. “Daniel was practically glowing when I went in to get my oil changed just before he closed. Must have been some date.”

“It wasn’t really a date,” I said, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“Uh-huh, I see that.” Cate gave me a wink and went on inside.

After we all had slices of super-greasy, super-perfect pizza, I caught Cate and Lucas up on what we’d found in the articles. “I stopped reading her stuff a long time ago. Made me too angry, especially when she went after the museum.” Cate’s jaw was set. “No one messes with my man.”

“Oh yeah, that article was brutal . . . and Stevensmith was wrong—you aren’t a bit bloated, if you don’t mind me saying, Lucas,” Stephen said. “What was her deal?”

“No one really knew, and lots of folks tried to get her let go from the paper,” Lucas said. “But her articles sold subscriptions. A lot of the people who summer here kept a subscription online just so they could see who Stevensmith would slam next. A classic case of sensational journalism if ever there was one.”

I took another slice of pizza and proceeded to peel the cheese off and eat it with my fingers while I pondered. “But if everyone knew she was hateful, why would it still make someone mad? I mean, she was pretty much pissing off people who knew better than to read what she said anyway, right?”

“True,” Cate said, “but people still got mad. Anytime someone says something demeaning about you, it stings, even if you know you shouldn’t take it personally.”

I thought of Max Davies and how bitter he still was about that review from five years ago. She’d been pretty hard on Elle Heron, too. And that poor English teacher. Cate was right. Lots of people had a reason to dislike Stevensmith. “But does it sting badly enough to kill her? I mean you have to be either hopping mad or really angry for a really long time to commit a murder, don’t you?”

“I’d think so,” Walter said as he got up to refill everyone’s glasses with Pepsi. The only drink that befits great pizza is Pepsi, and I was glad to see my friends all agreed. “But then, I’ve never committed murder.”

The room got quiet for a while, and then Mart said, “Okay, who’s up for Apples to Apples?”

Everyone looked at her like she’d just sprouted a second head until she said, “The game. You don’t know it? I thought it might be fun to play since we’re all here anyway.”

“I’d be up for a round or two,” Cate said.

“It’s not like we’re going to solve this murder tonight, anyway,” I said as I grabbed wine glasses and two bottles of pinot noir. Pepsi for pizza, red wine for after.

“I’m pretty sure the sheriff would prefer you not try to solve anything, my dear,” Stephen said as he poured himself a large glass and resumed his seat on the floor. “But I also expect he knows, by now, that his preferences and your desires might not align.

I kicked him under the table and smiled. He was right.

The next day, the shop was busy from the minute we opened until we closed at seven. Michiko Kakutani had indeed mentioned the shop on Twitter and included a photo of the storefront, and that, coupled with what Cate told me were the usual beginnings of the tourist season, meant we had an amazing day of sales.

I was grateful . . . for the sales, but also for the distraction because, of course, tonight Daniel was coming over for movie night. If the shop had been slow, I would have probably gnawed my fingers to the first joint. As it was, I simply had a very short, very ragged manicure.

When we’d finally turned off the lights, set the alarm, and headed out, Rocky and I were dragging but invigorated. “That was a good day, Boss,” she said as we stopped outside the shop door.

“Boss? You don’t need to call me boss, Rocky.”

“I know I don’t need, too, but I like to. Think of it like ‘You da boss,’ as in ‘You’re a badass.’”

I laughed. “So not as in Who’s the Boss?”

Rocky’s blank stare reminded me firmly of our age difference.

I waved a hand. “Never mind. Eighties reference.”

She giggled. “I love that old-school stuff.”

“Sure,” I said as I tried not to roll my eyes. Old school. “Want to walk or drive over?”

“I’ll drive,” she said as I heard the beep of her car’s alarm. “It’ll save me the trouble later.”

I waved as Mayhem and I started down the